Heartlines
by Mephist
Summary: So, what exactly happened when Altaïr and Maria journeyed east after the events in Cypress, anyhow? Only one thing is certain. It involved a lot of name-calling. Follow our favourite AC couple through meltdowns, melodrama, and all that mushy crap we just love to read about. Altaïr/Maria fluff. Rating likely to go up.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Alright, so this is my first AC fic and I freely admit I have no idea where it's going. Fair warning. I haven't actually played the games, have read The Secret Crusade and done a lot of research though, particularly on Altaïr's story. If it's not completely accurate I apologize in advance. I foresee this mainly revolving around Altaïr/Maria fluff seeing as I adore them, but I will attempt to work a plot in there. Maybe.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"You are awake early today, Maria." Altaïr felt himself adequately fluent in English, but the string of expletives which followed his greeting had him wondering if there still wasn't quite a lot for him to learn. "You are perhaps not feeling well?"

From where she huddled against the ship's railing the former Templar proceeded to heave up the last of her aching stomach's contents over the side and then issued a pitiful groan. When the Assassin's hand appeared before her nose she wrinkled it at the small sprig of greenery laying in his calloused palm.

"If you chew it, it may bring you some relief," he supplied.

While it certainly didn't look like much, Maria was far past the point of persnickety. She snatched the herb from him and ground it determinedly between her teeth. Anything was better than the constant cycle of managing to force down a few mouthfuls of food only to be vomiting it up again a couple of hours later. Everything hurt and she was beginning to gain a new appreciation for the men who worked nimbly on deck all around them, completely at home on the pitching seas. For her part, Maria belonged with both feet planted on solid ground. And that was precisely where she intended to stay. If she actually made it there again.

"How much further?" she demanded, squeezing her eyes shut against another lurch of her gut.

"A few days more if the weather holds."

Damn him. Damn him for always being so collected and calm. Oh he just had all the answers, didn't he? Really, it was infuriating at times. Why had she ever thought travelling east with him was a good idea? Bloody ridiculous, that's what it was. She could have gone anywhere. Well, not anywhere exactly. But a good many places which were not east and not on this blasted boat.

"Maria? How do you feel now?"

How did she feel? "Bleeding awful, that's how. And whatever this is tastes like dirt."

"You would not like to get off of the ship and stretch your legs, then?"

Seriously? Now was the time he chose to start cracking jokes? "Don't be an ass, I haven't the patience for it at the moment."

"Very well. Stay here, I will not be gone for long."

"As if I could _go_ anywhere else."

Maria snorted when no response came. Idiot. Probably scratching away in his little book again. It never ceased to amaze and annoy her how much time he spent writing whatever he was writing. As though it were more interesting than having a real conversation. What the hell did he have to say to a piece of parchment that was so important? And why couldn't he just say it to her instead? If the numerous pages of flowing script (which she had not flipped through on occasion when he forgot the book below deck) were any indication, he was having a far easier time finding things to write about than talk to her about. They'd barely spoken more than a few passing civilities to each other since boarding the ship in Cypress. It did occur to her that she had spent the majority of her time since then battling her seasickness and being downright contrary, but that was hardly her fault. How could she really be to blame for not taking up the role of conversationalist when she was having a hard time merely keeping track of what was up and what was down on this godforsaken vessel? Always swaying this way and that way, throwing her off balance and making even the simplest tasks (such as relieving oneself) all but impossible. And all the time the Assassin was strolling about as though he had been born at sea. Perhaps he had been.

With a sigh, Maria shifted a little to try and get more comfortable on the worn planking and it suddenly dawned on her that the deck was not rolling. Her eyes snapped open and she swiveled her head to take in the quay of boats tied up alongside them in the harbour they had apparently made port in at some point while she'd been busy feeling sorry for herself. Wonderful.

Getting her legs beneath her, she stood shakily and made her way towards the dock, doing her level best not to trip in her own feet. Nothing was sweeter than taking that first step onto terra firma. She'd no idea where here was, but it was instantly her new favourite place.

"Out of the way, woman," a hefty man grumbled as he swerved around her. A fisherman, from the smell of him. But not even that could dispel Maria's newfound sense of joy. Joy to be alive and standing on a surface which was not moving to and fro beneath her. Everything was right in the world again. She strolled down the dock, managing to appear only mildly intoxicated, and even summoned up a smile for the two girls who ran past her giggling.

Approaching the array of fruit stands, she bartered with a wrinkled crone she was sure had been around when Jesus was born and got a bag full of blood oranges in exchange for the length of blue ribbon she had been using to tie her hair back. She found a cosy seat in the sun on the dilapidated stone wall which encircled the harbour front and had devoured three of the juicy pieces of fruit in a matter of minutes. In the process of peeling the fourth, she started and cursed herself when Altaïr's approach (as per usual) caught her utterly off guard.

"I thought you did not wish to leave the ship?"

Swiping a hand across her chin to remove the evidence of her somewhat unladylike consumption of the oranges, she gave the most nonchalant shrug she could manage. "Changed my mind."

"Ah." She caught the slight quirk of his lips as he lowered himself to sit on the other side of her stash of fruit. "Your appetite has returned, I see."

"Mmmhmm," she was forced to mumble around a mouthful of the delectable ruby flesh.

"I am glad, but perhaps you should give your stomach some time to settle before we set sail again."

"Hmm?"

"The captain assured me this would be a very fleeting stopover."

And just like that, Maria felt ill again. Spitting out what was in her mouth rather unceremoniously, she turned to him in desperation. "I can't get back on that boat, not today. Surely we can convince them to stay a little longer? A day or two?"

"It is a merchant vessel carrying perishable goods, I do not suspect this would be possible. Besides, in only a few more days we will make land in Acre," he assured quite reasonably.

"But why go there at all? Our aim is to head east, to India, right? Wouldn't it make the most sense to start out from here? No point in wasting time continuing to Acre; where we're both wanted for treason, I might add." Well, it was true.

"You jest, Maria," Altaïr insisted.

"I'm not getting back on that boat." Maria sniffed indignantly. "Go without me, if you like."

"I have already paid for our passage to Acre."

"Oh is that the issue at hand? Well, here!" Shoving the sack of oranges at him, she stood. "What else shall I give you in gratitude for ruining my life and having a price put on my head? How about my dignity? No, wait, you took that already. Hang on, I'm sure I'll come up with a suitable form of repayment."

"Maria-" he attempted to conciliate the situation, but her fist connecting with his jaw put an abrupt end to that. She noted with some satisfaction the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth as his hooded face turned back toward her. Silently he rose and took her wrist before she had the chance to evade him, pushing the bag of fruit into her grasp as she opened her mouth to protest. And then he had the gall to just walk away.

"Fine!" Maria shouted after him for finality's sake and plopped down onto the wall again dejectedly. The blood oranges didn't seem so appealing anymore.

She sat there until the ship set sail a mere hour later, and then she sat for the rest of the day, feeling stupider by the minute. What had she expected, for him to return, apologize and beg for them to continue their journey eastwards together? The notion made her huff. No, perhaps not that, but she had not prepared herself for the possibility he might actually abandon her either. He'd spent weeks dragging her all over Cypress, after all.

Eventually she scolded herself into getting up and figuring out what she was to do with darkness fast approaching. She had few items left with which to bargain, and recalled in a surge of self-deprecation that she'd waltzed right off the ship without her last greatest possession – her sword.

"Bollocks!"

Grinding her heal down onto the peels she'd discarded earlier during her feeding frenzy, she fought the urge to throw a tantrum and took several deep breaths. She still had her cloak and her boots, they were of a quality make and should easily fetch her enough coin to secure accommodations for the night. With the vendors packing away their stalls for the evening she slung the sack of fruit over her shoulder and hurried to broker her deals. Maria couldn't help feeling a little pleased with herself as she completed the necessary transactions and headed off in the direction she had been informed she would find the inn, her 'new' boots nipping her toes and scratchy replacement cloak flapping in the breeze.

The inn was easy enough to find, though she didn't get the feeling she would much enjoy her stay as she stepped into its dimly lit interior. The candles guttering on the table the lone patron sat at cast shadows across her weathered features as she bent over her knitting.

"I'm looking for a room for the night, is the keeper about?"

"Yes," came the absent response as the woman continued on with her work.

Maria shuffled her feet. "Then I need to speak with him." She'd assumed that much was obvious.

"You are."

About to lose patience with the old hag, Maria clued in before she could make a fool of herself. "Right." She cleared her throat. "Well then, I require a room with a lock on the door. How much for one night?"

The price was nothing short of criminal, but with no other prospects Maria paid it and stalked down the hall and ascended the creaky staircase to the second floor. Oddly enough there were no other sounds of occupancy in the run-down building despite it being the only inn in the port. When she reached the third door on the left she pushed it open and was halfway in before she noticed it was not in fact vacant.

"Bloody hell!" she fumed, glaring across the sparsely furnished room. "What are you doing here?"

Altaïr surveyed her from when he stood silhouetted in the only window. "You said you would not get on the ship again, Maria," he replied simply.

"I know what I said, Assassin! Answer my question!"

"I retrieved your belongings and came here to wait for you. I thought you may need some time to yourself."

Maria snorted. "Indeed? So you just assumed after _all that_, not only would I be happy to keep travelling with you, but I might like to share a room with you?" It was maddening, the way he had known precisely where she would end up before even she had.

He inclined his head a fraction, but his expression wasn't discernable. The light from the lamp hanging in the hallway didn't reach the dark recesses of the room. "If I was incorrect, I will go."

"Go, then! I thought you already had, anyway." She moved to the narrow bed and dropped her sack of oranges onto the floor as she sat. The thin straw mattress barely gave at all under her weight and she sighed, resigning herself to a restless night already. He didn't show any signs of leaving, but she resolved to ignore this and instead set about the task of removing her ill-fitting footwear. Which was when she spotted her sword propped against the wall adjacent the bed and snatched it up like a long-lost friend. Running her fingers over the wear marks on the hilt, she bit her lip. "Look, I know that… this isn't entirely your doing. If I had not been so blinded by my own pursuits perhaps I would have seen the corruption spreading through the Order before it was too late. I didn't want to believe. I suppose a part of me still doesn't."

"Nothing is true. Everything is permitted." When she only looked towards him quizzically, Altaïr allowed the ghost of a smile to touch his lips. "Get some sleep, Maria. You are tired."

While she may have agreed wholeheartedly with his assessment, it didn't lessen her annoyance. Setting her sword aside, she kicked off the slightly too small boots as he crossed the room and experienced a moment of mild panic until she realized he was merely closing the door. What should it matter, in any case? She was perfectly capable of spending the night alone in a musty old inn. Hell, she preferred her privacy. The fact that he even had the nerve to insist upon sharing her room was insufferable. Or, at least, she told herself it was as she curled up on the stiff mattress under her cloak and fell nearly immediately asleep in the company of his reassuring presence.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Moving right along. I should mention these are all going to be a collection of moments and while they will run in order they aren't necessarily in direct sequence to one another. For example, probably a week or so has passed since the first chapter. I'm going to try to keep away from mentioning the names of places and whatnot since I don't pretend to have the required knowledge to plot Altaïr and Maria's course eastward in the late twelfth century. **

**Translations for this chapter (which I shamefully took from various internet sources, so if they're horribly incorrect, please send me a PM and I will gladly fix them):**

**Artahh - relax  
Imra'ah anidah - stubborn woman  
Kaathib - liar**

* * *

Squinting her eyes, Maria tugged her hood down further over her face and grumbled not for the first time about dying in the middle of nowhere. Her horse snorted its agreement. Overhead the sun was blasting down on them so relentlessly that she fancied she had a fairly accurate understanding of how a spit of meat might feel as it was being slowly roasted on an open flame. Growling hopefully at the mere thought of food, her stomach had to be satisfied with another small swig of water instead. The last of their dried figs and desert hare had been consumed the previous night. Giving her waterskin a squeeze, Maria could feel how little liquid it still held. Altaïr had insisted they not burden their mounts unnecessarily with extra supplies, much to her growing consternation. Evidently food and water could now be classed as unnecessary. She did intend to lop his head off before she starved, of course. She was just awaiting the opportune moment.

If he was at all concerned about their plight, his usual lack of emotion concealed it well. Riding ahead with his reins gripped loosely in one hand as the other rested against his thigh, he was the very picture of carefree arrogance. And what was perhaps the worst was that she had no choice but to continue to plod along after him trusting that he had a right to that self-assured demeanor. Well, he did seem to have an irritating habit of always coming out on top in a sticky situation.

Maria spluttered and coughed as another hail of sand was whipped into her face and successfully inhaled. She tried to spit out the portion that had made its way into her mouth and dragged a sleeve across her lips with a grimace.

"You must not breathe through your mouth, Maria," came Altaïr's vexing instruction.

"So help me God, if you say that one more time I will beat you senseless with the flat of my blade!" she seethed.

Turning his horse back, he was reaching for the throwing knives at his waist as he drew closer, and Maria instinctively grabbed for her sword. He cocked his head at her reaction and slowed his approach. "Artahh. I mean to help only."

Warily, she allowed him to guide his mount broadside with hers and watched as he removed the belt of knives and proceeded to unwind the red sash beneath from his torso. Her grip tightened on the pommel of her blade when he leaned in.

"If I meant to do harm to you, Maria, I would have done so long ago," Altaïr pointed out, and for once his voice was tinged with something she could not place. Exasperation? Annoyance?

Regardless, her only response was to continue to grasp the hilt as she stared at him defiantly.

"Imra'ah anidah." Plucking her hood down in one swift motion, he shook out the sash and then began to deftly wrap it around her face to cover her mouth and nose.

Maria's eyes narrowed at the full frontal assault of her personal space, but she found it difficult to tear them away from the scar at the corner of his lips, which had compressed into a thin line as he worked.

He sat back in his saddle when he finished, though their proximity to one another still made her uncomfortable. "Why did you agree to travel with me if you still believe I am untrustworthy?"

She couldn't help it, she scoffed, though the action was muffled by the sash. "You are an Assassin, you kill people on a daily basis. Doesn't exactly incite trust, I'm afraid to inform you."

"You did not answer my question." Was he getting impatient?

"And I suppose you'd place your life in my hands without so much as a second thought?"

"Should I not?"

Almost before she quite knew what she was about her hand shot out towards him, and was caught equally as swiftly by a firm grip a mere inches from his shadowed face. "Ah, so I am not the only one with trust issues," Maria quipped snarkily, forcing down her bewilderment at his once again impossibly agile reflexes.

Altaïr's hold on her wrist loosened accordingly as he digested the implication of his own reaction. He finally released her arm altogether and sat still.

Before she could lose her nerve her fingers closed on the dusty white linen of his hood and pulled it back slowly to reveal the man it hid. And Maria was sufficiently shocked. She'd imagined… she wasn't sure what she'd imagined, but it wasn't the face gazing back at her now.

The pair of gold flecked almond eyes regarded her suspiciously, and beneath the light stubble covering his jaw a muscle twitched. "I assume there is a purpose to this?"

The question brought her out of her hormonally-induced stupor. "I'm sick of speaking to a bloody shadow. If you want me to trust you, try acting like a normal person now and again and not a trained killer," she bristled, digging her heels into her horse's ribs and picking up their abandoned pace. It was dreadfully hard not to glance back, but by the time his mount caught up, Maria discovered with no small measure of disappointment that Altaïr's hood had been drawn into place again.

"We must find shelter, a storm is coming," he informed her, as though nothing at all had happened.

The storm did come, a sinister wall of whirling sand which stretched as far in every direction as Maria could see. Unfortunately, there was no shelter to be found, and so with the aid of her cloak as well as the two blankets they carried in their saddlebags, his longsword (she refused to part with her own), and a length of rope he was able to construct a small tent. Their mounts were hobbled and left to their own devices, there was little more that could be done for the animals.

The blankets flapped wildly under the barrage of sand and wind, and the air was filled with the tempest's angry howls. Maria finished the last of her water amid her the noisy protesting of her stomach. Pushing the plug back into her empty waterskin she idly wondered what sort of crazy she must be to have ended up in her current predicament. Surely there was an institution for someone who willingly threw away the kind of comfortable life she could have enjoyed with Peter if only she'd been content to whelp his brats and do needlework. And then it came to her. A nunnery. That was where she belonged.

She came back to herself when something nudged her hand and raised her drooping head to find Altaïr silently offering his waterskin, sans the hood. Clumsily she accepted, taking a few grateful swallows before passing it back over. "Thank you."

"What are you thinking of?" he inquired.

Maria blinked. "Sorry?"

"Something is troubling you."

"I'll tell you what's troubling me, Assassin, we're going to die out here and it's entirely your fault," she answered matter-of-factly, trying to stretch her legs in the cramped quarters.

"Why should we die, Maria?"

"Oh I don't know, it could have to do with our complete lack of provisions or this bloody sandstorm or the fact I don't believe you have a damned clue where you're going." She gave herself credit for not screaming.

Shifting to allow her more space, Altaïr continued to study her. "I think not. There is a well only a few miles from here, when the storm breaks we will ride there and make camp for the night. I will find something for us to eat. But that is not what was troubling you when I asked."

"Do you read minds now?" It would explain a few things.

"No. Body language only."

Maria crossed her arms, giving up on trying to get comfortable and focusing all of her attention on glaring daggers at him instead. "If that's the case, you should have no problem whatsoever getting the message I'm sending right now."

Surprisingly she caught a flicker of hesitation behind his subdued countenance. "You said you wished for me to act like a normal person. Do people not normally discuss what is troubling them?"

"I've just told you, haven't I?" If this was his way of being friendly, she wanted nothing to do with it.

"You have been complaining of these things since the moment we entered the desert, they annoy you but they do not trouble you. You were thinking of something else," he reasoned.

"I was not."

"You were."

"MmmMmm."

Altaïr's brow hitched up at her latest expression of denial. "Kaathib."

To which Maria jabbed his hip with the toe of her boot. "You know I don't understand that."

"MmmHmm."

She rolled her eyes. "Wanker." At his lack of comprehension she made the appropriate hand gestures and smirked as his nostrils flared in apparent disgust.

"You have a filthy mouth, Maria."

"You started it," she pointed out, attempting to repeat the word he'd used when his brow furrowed. "Katbe?"

He shook his head at her mispronunciation. "Kaathib."

"Kaabee?"

"Kaathib," he enunciated clearly for her.

"Cat pee?"

Altaïr scowled at her intentional error. He had perceived her game too late.

Maria, on the other hand, was having a grand time. "Let's try another, shall we?"

"Perhaps some other time."

"Oh don't be such a fuddy-duddy." She grinned at his unimpressed expression. "Aren't you at least going to tell me what it means?" she prompted.

He shrugged. "It means someone who is telling a falsehood."

"You called me a liar?" The grin slid right off her face.

"It is slightly less offensive than the term you used, would you not agree?"

"You really are a wanker."

"I assure you I am not."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Bit of a short chapter, I have a feeling the next will be longer.**

**Translations (again, please feel free to correct these in a PM)**

**Kaathib - liar  
'aqrab - scorpion**

* * *

Millions of tiny lights glittering in a sea of darkness. The desert night-sky was like nothing Maria had ever beheld. She couldn't recall the stars having been quite so clear in England, nor the moon half so bright. It stood sentry now over its dominion, awaiting the coming of the dawn when it would silently fade away for another day.

Somewhere nearby one of the horses hacked up another lungful of the sand it had had the misfortune of ingesting in the storm earlier that day, the cough being accentuated by a comparable noise from its rear end.

Slapping a hand over her mouth, Maria did the unthinkable and snickered. Good lord, what was becoming of her? When the fit of laughter subsided she hazarded a glance across the glowing embers of their campfire towards where the Assassin was presumably (if there was a God) sleeping.

He didn't stir, which was a good sign.

Peeling her fingers away from her lips, she let out a small sigh and dried the tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes. It'd been far too long since she'd had a proper laugh.

"You are having difficulty resting, Maria?"

"I'm resting just fine, go back to sleep!" she snapped after she managed to dislodge her heart from her throat. The sneaky bastard.

Altaïr said no more and soon the absence of their voices ushered back in the regular sounds the night creatures as they went about their business. Whether he had complied with her order or not she held no delusions about.

"I was thinking about the life I left behind in England," she blurted unexpectedly, startling herself this time. She had no idea what had possessed her to so abruptly divulge her earlier musings.

But instead of replying Altaïr remained quiet, coaxing her onwards without needing to speak at all.

Wetting her lips, Maria plunged into more detail. "I don't miss it, but I just… I wonder why it was never enough for me when it's what so many other woman dream of. A title, a rich husband who was by all accounts a decent sort of fellow, a comfortable existence… My only job was to give him an heir, and then I could have buggered off and done pretty well anything I wanted (within reason, of course). Why does it all seem so bloody dismal to me?"

Here he responded as though the answer were obvious. "It would not have been a fulfilling existence for you."

"But why the hell not? Something is either drastically wrong with me, or the vast majority of the female population. So, which is it?" she demanded.

"Why must something be wrong with either? Do you believe every person must derive peace and happiness from the same source?"

"Of course not."

She noticed his shoulders lift, but the dying fire didn't give off enough illumination to really see more of his form. "Why then must all women be content to seek in life only a suitable husband with whom to raise a family?"

"Do you mean to tell me that isn't exactly what both your culture and my own expect?"

"Do they not also expect for us to be sworn enemies?"

The corner of Maria's mouth turned up in a smirk. "Aren't we?"

"You are not my enemy, Maria. And I am not yours, despite what you may yet feel."

"You nearly killed me," she reminded him.

"But I didn't."

"But you nearly did."

Altaïr folded his arms beneath his head. "You are more bothered that you lost to me than you are that I nearly killed you," he inferred.

"Of course I lost, I was wearing plate armor made for a man twice my size," she shot right back.

"And when we met at the harbour in Acre?"

"You had me surrounded."

"A fact you were not then aware of."

Maria snorted. "Says who?"

"Kaathib."

"Bite me, Assassin," she grumbled while rolling onto her side, facing away from him.

"Be careful what you wish for, Maria."

Well, if that didn't get her imagination going, nothing would. The rest of her night was spent discovering just what parts of her body her subconscious desired most to have his scarred mouth explore. When she was roused from her most recent dream it was to find said lips hovering disconcertingly close to her ear.

"Maria, be still."

Which immediately brought on the urge to do anything but. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

"I will explain, but right now lie still and do not move." His breath was deliciously hot against her skin.

"You bleeding well better explain it this instant or I'll break your god damned nmfpg!" Her eyes widened in outrage at the hand he'd clamped over her mouth, but before she could so much as think of retaliating he released her once again and straightened back away from her. Murder was written plainly across her features. That was, until she noticed the scorpion he held dangling by its barbed tail in his other hand.

Altaïr carried the creature away from their camp and sent it scrabbling down into a nearby burrow before returning, apparently unfazed by either the close encounter with her or the invertebrate. "We should move on soon."

Stifling her exasperation, Maria got up and stomped about packing up her meager belongings.

They were well underway by the time the Assassin spoke again, their horses matching each other stride for stride. "Maria?"

"What?" she grated grumpily.

"You never did say what it was you intended to break."

Glowering over at him, Maria barely restrained herself from lunging across the gap between them and tackling him to the ground. "Your face, you insolent sod."

"That would require a certain amount of dedication. There are many bones in the face," Altaïr went on solemnly.

"Are you suggesting I wouldn't be equal to the task?"

"I did not say that."

"No, I think you were implying just that. Tell you what, why don't we test it out? I promise to only break the bones in your face, the rest are safe."

He looked towards her, perplexed. "Would you have preferred for me to have let the 'aqrab sting you, Maria?"

"You're being a wanker again."

"You are upset with me for no reason."

"You might have said something to warn me!"

"I told you to be still."

Maria tossed her head. "Well I suppose _you_ are accustomed to following commands without question, but _I'm_ not."

"Why must you insist on making things difficult between us?" Altaïr questioned, all pretenses aside.

But she refused to meet his eye. "There is no 'us'."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So, just a bit of a head's up. Rating has increased with this chapter for sexual references. Also, I took some liberties as far as etiquette during the era is concerned. I don't believe women were permitted inside many places of business at the time, and likewise I think convents probably didn't allow male guests. **** I may very well be wrong, I'm in no way an authority on such things. ** The origins of the convent are purely conjecture, and the convent itself is of course entirely fictitious.

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"We should not have come here."

Maria eyed the Assassin with a hint of triumph. So, she'd finally succeeded in taking him out of his comfort zone, eh? "It's just a tavern. Relax. Blend in. Supposed to be halfway good at that, aren't you?"

"It is not me who is attracting all of the attention."

"I don't much care at the moment, I'm tired and hungry and thirsty and this is the only place for miles to get a hot meal."

"You know women are not permitted inside such establishments, Maria."

As if to punctuate this statement, the proprietor of said establishment approached the table in the back they had situated themselves at.

"Ah good, I'll have a plate of whatever is warm."

The burly man growled something in a language which was decidedly not English, his braided beard wriggling with every word.

"What is he saying?" she demanded of Altaïr as he got to his feet.

"He says we must leave."

Maria drummed her fingers against the stained tabletop. "Tell him to be reasonable and allow us to pay him for a simple meal and a moment's respite. We'll soon be on our way and no one's the worse for it."

Bushy brows drawing down, the owner grunted his disapproval of her obvious refusal to heed him.

"We will find food elsewhere. Come." Altaïr gestured for her to stand and follow him.

Stand she did, but rather than meekly slink away Maria took a step forward so that she was toe to toe with the bearded brute. "I should open your gut for you, you fat ignorant dol-" She couldn't be certain whether it was the Assassin's iron grip on her elbow as he jerked her away or the owner's incensed roar which had actually interrupted her before she could finish the insult, but either way she felt she had gotten her point across.

Fair hauling her outside the tavern, Altaïr did not lessen his hold on her arm nor his pace until they were safely out of sight of any and all prying eyes. When he did stop and let go, she was expecting a lecture on the dangers of causing such a scene or some other such nonsense. Instead he leaned his shoulder against the crumbling façade of the building they'd ducked behind and reached up, running his hand back through his close-cropped hair as he pushed his hood down. His eyes were shut, Maria noted. She stared, mesmerized as his fingers worked at a knot in the muscles at the back of his neck for a moment and then drifted back to his side. "Why provoke a fight when there is no need?" he asked wearily.

"You think it's fair that my gender precludes me from the right to shelter and food?" Admittedly, his mood was putting a damper on her liberal tirade, but the proprietor's prejudice behaviour was intolerable. She was past sick of being underprivileged all because of the lack of a penis hanging between her legs.

"No, Maria. I think you should enjoy the same rights that any man does, but I am not prepared to end the lives of a tavern full of people who believe otherwise. Some battles must be won with words, not blades."

She rolled her eyes. "So says the Assassin."

Altaïr flinched, meeting her gaze for the first time since dragging her outside. "Is that truly all you see when you look at me?"

Maria was taken aback by the thought she had injured him somehow, and not physically as she so often wanted to. "I hardly know you," she sidestepped the question.

"Because you do not wish to know me."

"Don't be ridiculous." The problem was, it wasn't ridiculous. It was damn near spot on. The more time she spent with the Assassin, the more she rebelled against her growing respect for him. And it was getting more and more challenging to deny just how much she enjoyed that time.

"You have not once called me by my name since we left Cypress," he confronted her in even tones, holding her captive with his intense stare.

Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Maria tried not to squirm too visibly. "Of course I have."

Evidently he disagreed, watching her expectantly.

"Do you honestly plan to force me into saying it?" She pursed her lips at his continued silence. "This is absurd."

In a display of feline grace she still found remarkable he shoved away from the wall and had scaled the building with ease in a matter of only moments while she looked on like a simpleton. It was a wonder her mouth didn't hang open.

"Altaïr, wait!" she called after his trailing robes, but they too disappeared over the rooftop and out of her sight. "Bollocks!" Sizing up the sheer face of the wall he had ascended, Maria set her jaw. She moved to where she determined the best starting point to be and began to climb, albeit much more slowly than he had and pausing to curse whenever she couldn't find a decent handhold. Two near death experiences and one rather girlish squeal later she yanked herself up the last few feet and clambered onto the roof. Only to find the Holy Grail of her quest was nowhere around. "Maria, you stupid cow," she chastised herself. All that remained was to find somewhere to wait until he returned. If he returned.

Her stomach complained loudly to remind her that she had not eaten in too long, but it was nothing she wasn't good and used to by now. Judging from the way her clothes fit, she'd lost a stone or two since joining the Assassin. Idly, she wondered if she got a look at herself in a mirror whether she'd recognize the person looking back. A little self-conscious, she reached up to pat a hand over her crown braid, which was surely a wreck, tucking in as many of the loose ends as she could. What she needed was a steaming bath, but even a basin and washcloth would have been a luxury when compared with the inadequate splashes of well-water on her face and arms she'd had to make do with of late. She thought of the fleeting glimpses of exposed chest she'd caught at such times when Altaïr had been splashing himself with that same well-water. He'd never undressed, but he had removed his cowl and tugged his robes loose enough to wash the dust of travel from his neck.

Maria wasn't surprised by her physical attraction to him, she expected any woman with a pulse would react the same. Even before she'd seen his face she had felt enticed by his litheness and the quiet confidence of his every movement. That images of his naked body had invaded her dreams nightly for over a week now was another matter altogether. She wasn't sleeping properly and when she did wake, there he was lying only an arm length or two away usually. It was becoming nothing short of torture. When she'd had a husband she'd wanted nothing less than to share his bed, and here she was lusting after the Assassin like a bitch in heat. If she hadn't been so sexually frustrated she might have laughed at the irony of it.

"I did not expect to find you up here."

She jumped, but managed to check the exclamation which normally followed on such occasions. "I'd like to think I'm not completely predictable."

"It would seem not."

Glancing towards the sound of his voice, Maria let out a slow breath. "Listen Altaïr, I-"

His upheld palm stopped her before she'd hardly begun. "Your food is growing cold."

"Come again?"

"I have found a place for you to stay tonight. Come, your hot meal awaits you."

Intrigue won out over suspicion and she followed him to the edge of the roof. "So where exactly- you can't be serious…"

Altaïr turned back to her from where he'd newly alighted on the next building over after an effortless leap. "It isn't far."

She had no clue whether he was referring to her accommodations for the night or the distance of the jump. No matter, she could make it. Hell, she'd managed to get up there without breaking her neck.

"Look at me, Maria. Do not worry about what is below."

It was only then she realized she'd been staring downwards in trepidation. Lifting her chin, she gazed across the open expanse between the rooftops to his steady stance on the other side. "If I fall and die, so help me, I will haunt you for all eternity." She could have sworn he had audacity to smile at that, but it may have been a trick of the light. The sun was fast setting on the horizon.

Altaïr waved a hand, beckoning her across.

Not about to back down, Maria took a half-dozen steps back to give herself space and then started forward, pushing off with all the strength her legs had. She cleared the gap alright, but stumbled on landing. A strong pair of hands on her waist prevented her face from colliding with the roof-tiles.

Without a sound he righted her and for the briefest of moments she could feel his body pressed against her side, ensuring she had her balance before he released her. "This way."

Maria would later be chagrined to find she had little recollection of the route they'd taken. The journey over the rooflines had passed in a daze.

In fact, it wasn't until she was standing alone in her modest yet cozy room that she again became fully aware of herself. She cast an appraising glance about. A convent smack dab in the heart of Muslim territory. It didn't make a lick of sense, and yet here it was. Maria left the enigma to be pondered on once she was working on a full stomach and instead fell ravenously on the plate of food she'd been left. Once it had been as good as licked clean she turned her attention to the large brass tub in the corner, steam still rising from the sweetly scented water it held. There truly was a God. Wasting little time, she stripped off her travel stained garments and in her haste almost forgot to check the temperature before getting in. It was a tad on the boiling side, but nothing she intended to complain about. Several painful attempts later to untangle the rat's nest which was her hair she gave up and plunged her head beneath the fragrant water.

The knock on the door thus went unanswered. Therefore when she surfaced Maria was appropriately shocked to find a slip of a girl stealing her clothes.

"Oi! Put those back!"

Well, she did successfully scare the waif half to death, but not before the little blighter had snatched up her things. Water sloshed over the rim of the bath and onto the stone floor as Maria made a grab for the thief as she beat a hasty retreat out the door, slamming it behind herself. In all likelihood she was just taking it to launder, however that didn't stop Maria from feeling justifiably disgruntled at the intrusion. Besides, now what was she to wear?

Sinking back down into the tub, she turned her attention to the puzzle which was the convent once more. The woman who had shown her to the room had been garbed as a nun from the habit right down to the rosary beads, but she hadn't understood a word of the English or French Maria had used to try and thank her. Doubtless the convent was the last Christian sanctuary this far east, probably established during one of the previous expansion periods of the crusades. Since then the Muslim tide had swept back in, leaving it a lonely island. Her best guess was that its occupants were of Armenian descent.

Which led to her confusion over how the Assassin, a Muslim, had procured shelter for her here. As she contemplated this she began to notice an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach. Guilt. She was well-fed and soaking languidly in a hot bath while he was… somewhere else, presumably not enjoying the same comforts. With a sigh Maria attacked her wild mane with renewed vigor, working her fingers through it until most, if not all of the knots were gone. Then she took the coarsely bristled brush from the table beside the tub and applied herself to scrubbing every square inch of herself. When she had done and stepped out to dry off with the provided towel, her skin was fair glowing pink from the combination of her ministrations and exposure to the slightly scalding water. She wasn't thrilled about the homespun robe which had been laid out on the bed (she guessed by the waif before her clothes were spirited away), but she donned it nonetheless and knotted the belt tightly. Padding to the window, Maria threw open the shutters and leaned out, peering through the darkness.

"Altaïr?" He likely wasn't anywhere around, but her conscience wouldn't be silence until she'd made certain. "Altaïr!" she whispered louder, feeling like a fool. Yelling was absolutely out of the question. About to call it quits, it was only by chance she tilted her head back for one last look and caught sight of something above. She had to stretch out over the sill further than she would have preferred and crane her neck all the way back, but sure enough, there he was.

Perched atop the convent, head cocked aside in question as he looked down at her over the edge of the roof.

"What are you… nevermind, just come down here." Maria left the window, pacing across the room as she tried to figure out what exactly it was she was going to say. She did hear him this time, the softest of thuds as he dropped down onto the narrow sill through some miraculous means or other. It was humbling to think that, even locked away in the highest tower, no one and nothing was beyond his reach.

"Is something wrong, Maria?" he asked when she failed to provide an explanation for requiring him to climb into her room.

"Yes. I don't understand how you managed all this." She swept a hand around the room to indicate what she meant.

"I have done nothing, the nuns have provided all that you see."

"Why, though?"

"Is it not their function to serve God by aiding fellow Christians?"

"Precisely."

"Ah. You think because I am Muslim and we travel together, they should not offer food and shelter to you?" Altaïr studied her from the sill.

"No, that isn't… I mean, I find it strange… would you come in from there, you're making me nervous!" Maria faced him, hands on hips as she waited for him to comply. "What I'm getting at is that it seems to me as though this is more of a favour to you than regular Christian hospitality. I'd expect the food and shelter, yes, but a scented bath and washing my clothes? That goes above and beyond any treatment I've ever received as a guest at a holy place," she carried on when he was standing securely on the floor.

"Perhaps it is as you say. Is that offensive to you?" he ventured uncertainly, not understanding where her qualms lay.

"It's heresy, Altaïr." She shook her head slowly. "Christians doing favours for Muslims? Especially Muslims who make their living assassinating other Christians?"

"Maria, my Order has long provided protection to this convent against looters and persecutors. Why should it be heresy for them to show their gratitude by providing you with a bath?"

"Why would your Order protect a nunnery?"

"Since this has become Muslim territory again they have received no further support from their leaders. If we did not protect them, who would?"

As to that, she had no answer. "If that's the case, why haven't they given you refuge here as well?"

"They have. As much as is permissible. I am still a man, it would be unseemly for me to sleep inside, yes?"

Well, there was no arguing that. Even Christian men weren't normally welcome overnight unless they were on their deathbeds. "Right, well… I don't think it's fair your gender precludes you from the right to shelter. So, I won't tell if you don't." That said, she breezed past him to pull the shutters to before he even had a chance to reply. "I can sleep in the chair."

"You would give me your bed?" He needn't have sounded so taken aback by the gesture.

Maria turned around to find he had lowered his hood and was regarding her with one brow raised skeptically. "It's only a place to sleep." The first comfortable looking place to sleep she'd lain eyes on in far too long. She cleared her throat and turned her thoughts away from the fluffy pillows. "There's a basin and jug of water if you'd like to get cleaned up." It only occurred to her after the words had left her mouth how they could be construed as an insult.

Altaïr evidently saw no reason to take affront, though, and moved towards the stand which held the items she had mentioned. As she stood transfixed he began to remove his impressive array of weaponry, ending with the vambrace which harboured the notorious hidden blade. Carefully setting it aside, he next drew off his cowl and unraveled the red sash from his waist.

He had begun to shrug out of his robes by the time Maria managed to tear herself away and sat demurely on the bed she had somehow given away for the night on the pretense of being nicer than she actually was. She'd been looking forward to this bed. "Buggering idiot." Her head shot up the moment she detected she was being watched and discovered she must have spoken aloud. "You missed a spot," she blurted rather than admit she'd been talking to herself.

Looking back at her from over his bare shoulder, Altaïr was clearly unimpressed by the criticism. He held the washcloth out towards her in challenge, much to her dismay.

"It's just… sort of in between your shoulder blades…" Shoving her tongue into her cheek to shut herself up, Maria got up and crossed the room, taking the cloth. With as much dignity as she could muster she rinsed it in the basin and wrung out the excess water. "Well? Turn around."

He did so.

She barely swallowed the expletive which sprang to her lips as she took in the labyrinth of scars crisscrossing his back. From her seat on the mattress they'd hardly been visible, but now… Her fingers hovered over his scored skin, itching to trace each and every mark. God help her if she didn't have to take a breath and count to three before lifting her hand and wiping the offending dirt away. Just as she finished, she spotted another smudge on the backside of his ear and reached up to clean that as well.

But Altaïr tipped his head away from the unexpected contact.

"Keep bloody still, Assassin!" Grasping his shoulder with her free hand to ensure he obeyed, Maria dabbed at his ear until she was satisfied with its cleanliness.

"Are you done?" he protested, muscles flexing beneath her touch.

"Hardly. You really could use a proper bath, you know." She did let him go, however.

When he turned to her again, Maria was entirely unprepared for how close it brought their faces. "Unfortunately my gender precludes me from the right to a bath here, Maria." Was he smirking? She was actually too close to that exquisitely scarred mouth to tell, for once.

"Well, as long as we're breaking the rules…" She nodded towards the brass tub. "Water's still probably warm."

* * *

**A/N: This ran far longer than I intended, but not too worry, the next chapter will be a continuation! I'm not THAT sadistic.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Another short chapter. **

**Translations**

**Kaathib - liar  
Al-La'anah - damnit (I found several different possibilities for this one, please let me know if the one I chose is accurate if you happen to know Arabic)  
**

* * *

Taking the washcloth from her, Altaïr stepped back, further separating them and exhaling audibly through his nose. "It would hardly be appropriate." All traces of humour had vanished from his voice.

"Really?" Maria deadpanned.

He elected not to respond this time. Dropping the cloth into the basin, he reached towards his robes, but she was quicker. "Maria," he warned her as she fled to the tub with his clothing.

Holding the bundle of white linen over the water, she fixed him with her most apologetic look. "Altaïr… you smell." And dunked his Assassin's robes into the scented bath. Perhaps a little feminine for his taste, but overall an improvement.

For a whole minute nothing happened. Altaïr stared at her as though trying to comprehend what was going on. Then he approached the brass tub and plucked his garments out, nose wrinkling in distaste. Whether it was because of their saturated state or the heady aroma of lavender wafting up from them, she didn't exactly know.

Maria grinned. "You may as well get in now."

Glancing down, he reached out to trail his fingers through the water, presumably to test its temperature. However, the handful which found its way into her face told her the difference of this.

"Did you just splash me?" she somewhat needlessly demanded.

"My hand slipped." Altaïr turned his attention to wringing as much of the fragrant water as possible out his robes, but didn't bother to conceal his mirth, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards brazenly.

"Kaathib." Maria took advantage of his distraction at hearing her pronounce the word correctly in order to return the favour, giving him a good dousing.

"You are making a mess for the nuns to clean up, Maria," he pointed out as he gave his head a shake to dispel at least some of the water droplets clinging to it. Others were making their way in rivulets down his neck and shoulders.

"Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before your hand slipped."

Altaïr chuckled. "I will remember to do so in the future."

"Are you…? Did you just laugh?" She gaped at him openly. This night was just fraught with surprises.

"You are truly observant this evening, Maria."

"You never laugh!"

"I just did."

"For the first time ever!" Maria proclaimed, unwilling to have the matter downplayed.

He rolled his eyes. "You could not possibly know this."

Just then they were interrupted by a knock on the door. Maria whirled around in a panic despite her earlier indifference towards the convent's 'rules'.

Motioning for her to answer the summons, Altaïr followed her to the door with his sodden robes in hand and took up a place behind it so as to be out of view. He lifted a finger to his lips and then nodded encouragingly.

"Oh, you again, eh?" Maria drawled upon opening the door to find the waif standing outside.

Shoving the tray she carried into the Englishwoman's gut, the girl skittered away without even waiting to make sure Maria had ahold of it.

The action had nearly knocked the wind out of her, but Maria did manage to get a grip on the tray before it clattered to the floor. "My clothes had better be back here by first light!" she shouted after the waif for good measure. When she kicked the door shut and noticed it, Altaïr's expression was caught somewhere between bafflement and horror. "Oh don't bother, it was just the little scarecrow they sent to fetch my things earlier." She leaned down to take a whiff of the tray's contents. "Hmm, tea and oatcakes. These nuns must have really taken a shine to you."

"They have kind spirits," he reasoned while shaking out his robes.

Maria unanticipatedly blew off laughing, reeling away in order to find a safe place to set the tray down before she spilled everything.

Altaïr gazed after her in total incomprehension.

It was all she could do to point at the object of such hilarity once the tea and oatcakes were out of danger, still lost in the throes of levity. His complete disgust when he followed her indication to find part of his robes had been stained pink by dye which had bled into them from the red sash only fueled her amusement. "If you'd just gotten a bath…" She couldn't even finish the sentence.

Stalking back to the tub, Altaïr plunged his robes into the water again to attempt to soak the offensive colouring out. The red sash hung forlornly over the edge this time where it could do no further damage.

Maria was holding her aching sides as she lowered herself onto the bed and tried to rein in her glee. "Just leave it and come share my snack, Altaïr," she suggested when the short bursts of giggling had finally subsided. The nuns no doubt thought her a raving lunatic by this point.

"Al-La'anah," she heard him muttering under his breath as he bent over the tub.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Maria's eyes narrowed. "It was not nothing."

Leaving his robes floating, he took a seat across from her, the mattress dipping under his added weight. "An expression of displeasure," he related for her benefit. Evidence of their water-fight was still trickling down his lean torso.

"You cursed, in other words."

"Yes, Maria. I cursed. You are a terrible influence."

Snatching up the towel she had previously used, she chucked it at his head. "Careful, or I might change my mind about sharing."

Altaïr caught the poor excuse for a projectile almost absently. "Are you referring to your bed or your snack?" he prompted as he dried himself off.

"I didn't offer to share my bed with you," she informed him. "I said you could have it, and I might still change my mind about that as well."

"But you are sharing your bed with me right now, Maria." Cheeky bastard.

"As if I wasn't going to burn in hell already."

"Then you have nothing left to fear."

Maria scoffed. "Only a fool doesn't fear death." And she was looking at one. An entrancingly half-naked fool. She reached for one of the oatcakes on the tray between them, breaking it in half. Her appetite, however, was no longer for food.

"But you were prepared to die for Robert de Sable," Altaïr reminded her, much to her displeasure.

"Yes. Prepared and utterly terrified." There, she'd said it. She had confessed to the very man who had attempted to take her life what she hadn't been able to admit to even herself. From the moment Robert had laid out his plan to use her as a decoy, she'd been filled with anxiety. Only her fear of shame had been greater than her fear of dying, and so she had not let on to being fully aware of the inevitable outcome of the scheme. Oh, sure, there would be a dozen other Templars there to protect her should the Assassin make an attempt, as was the hope. But if Robert de Sable felt those numbers sufficient protection for her, why was he not attending the funeral himself? Yes, she had understood very well the part she was to play. And she had been very glad indeed of the oversized armor which had concealed her pasty complexion and her sweat soaking the padded doublet beneath that day. Maria Thorpe had been petrified. "Why didn't you kill me?"

"You were not my target."

"Nor were any of the men you murdered that day."

"They engaged me."

"To protect me."

Now it was his turn to be displeased. "They were aware of the risks involved in taking up a sword for a cause."

"As was I."

"I did what I had to do."

"What you were instructed to do."

"At the time, yes," Altaïr conceded, his amber eyes suddenly searching hers. "You and I are not so very different, Maria. We have both blindly trusted."

Maria nearly laughed. Nearly. "We could hardly be more different."

And she kept repeating it to herself that night as she stared across the room to where his robes hung drying, unable to find sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Maria watched, astonished and not a little aggravated as Altaïr murmured consolingly to her horse while running his hands down its front left leg to confirm what they both already knew.

He straightened up from his crouching position beside the animal and touched its velvet nose softly. Then he turned and walked the few feet to where she stood. "Be quick, we still have a long way to go before nightfall and our progress will be slower now."

She looked down to the blade he was so calmly offering. "I didn't see the damned burrow!"

"I know."

Snatching the dagger from him, she went to her horse. It eyed her warily, as though it knew precisely what was coming. Maria tucked the knife into her belt as she removed its tack and set it aside. Worst case scenario, the leather gear would fetch them enough coin to buy another, perhaps older and more rundown beast. She caught up the reins lastly and found she was frowning as she stared into her horse's expressive face, one ear cocked forward and the other back. "Look, I'm sorry…"

Altaïr glanced over from where he'd been securing the extra tack to his own mount. No doubt the animal would not be best pleased with the new burden it was to carry.

She tugged the dagger free, keeping it out of sight as she scratched her horse beneath its chin. The other ear perked forward when it felt the blade against its neck, but by then it was too late. Maria helped to lower its head to the ground as its three good legs gave out. She stroked the animal's muzzle until it had drawn its last gurgling breath and then stepped back, wiping her bloody fingers in her tunic. For a long time she didn't move.

Walking to the dead horse, Altaïr slid its bridle off. When his hooded figure turned she shoved the dagger against his chest, prompting him to take it back, and then stalked away.

The rest of the day passed in a strained silence.

By the time they reached their destination night had already fallen and Maria's feet were killing her. She plodded gratefully inside the, for once, habitable looking inn Altaïr had chosen while he disappeared to stable his horse. "A room for the night," she required of the keeper, a middle-aged man who gave her the perfunctory once-over she was accustomed to by now before indicating the price. She paused. "On second thought, two rooms. And kindly inform the white-robed man of where his is when he comes inside." It would take all of her remaining funds, but she was tired and pissed and in no mood to spend the night anywhere near the sanctimonious Assassin. Like he'd never made a mistake before. She wasn't sure the innkeeper got the full meaning of what she'd said, but she didn't much care either. She passed over the coins and followed the small boy who was instructed to show her to her accommodations.

The room was slightly more spacious than any of its predecessors, but upon further inspection, Maria found the bed not to be as comfortable as the one at the convent had been. She sat down on it anyway, thoughts drifting back to that evening. Or, more specifically, to Altaïr's lack of clothing that evening. She'd seen plenty of half-naked men during her time spent among the crusaders, pretending to be of the male persuasion, but she'd never seen anything quite as enticing as him. He was by no means what one would consider classically handsome, his plethora of scars took care of that, and he was even a little too lean. There was not an ounce of excessive flesh on his body, unlike so many of the knights Robert had surrounded himself with, and indeed Robert himself. She had no trouble believing Robert had easily overpowered him at Solomon's Temple. Where Robert's body had been built for brute strength, Altaïr's was powerful in a very different way. There could be no denying his strength, anyone who could climb buildings and leap between rooftops as he did obviously possessed physical substance, and he had the well-defined muscles to prove this. But they weren't massive, and neither was he. Of slightly above average height, perhaps, but otherwise of unimpressive proportions, which was no doubt why he was so often overlooked in a crown. If Robert had been a greatsword, Altaïr was a dagger. Both weapons had their advantages, but in the end the dagger was more versatile.

Cursing, Maria got back up. Her sore feet protested, but there was no way she was going to sit there and daydream about the Assassin a moment longer. She left her room with a determined step.

It took some doing, but she did manage to find a wine vendor who was willing to part with a jug of his wares in exchange for both of her bracers. She wasn't overly thrilled with letting them go, but necessity dictated the matter.

Once back on her lumpy mattress, she proceeded to kick off her boots (which had thankfully stretched enough so as to be tolerable), and left her cloak in a heap on the floor. The wine was three-parts gone when she heard the knock on the door. She waited for it to sound a second time before responding with a curt, "Go away." If 'go away' had meant 'come in', she could have understood what happened next. But it did not.

"Maria, I need to speak with you." Oh, now he wanted to talk?

Lifting the jug, she took another swallow. Apparently he took this as an invitation to continue.

"It was unfair of me to blame only you for what happened. I should not have assumed you would see the hole." He was kidding, right?

"It was an accident!"

"Yes, that is what I mean."

"No, that isn't what you mean! What you mean is that you should have assumed I wouldn't see the hole because I'm a blithering idiot who doesn't know how to ride!"

"The terrain is perhaps not what you are-"

"Fuck the terrain! I know how to ride, I know to watch for animal burrows – I didn't see that particular one. It was an accident." Maria paused, noticing what was in his hands for the first time. "What is that?" she demanded.

Altaïr seemed to hesitate. "A new shirt and your bracers."

Momentarily puzzled, she looked down to the bloodstains on her tunic (which had probably drawn the innkeepers attention as well, she had to admit), and her brow furrowed. "You followed me?"

"Maria-"

She surged to her feet, the clay jug shattering on the floor. Fortunately, there wasn't much left in it to spill. "I don't need you to watch over me. I don't need you to protect me. And I certainly don't need you to clothe me!" On the other hand, the fact there wasn't much left in it to spill had probably contributed to the sudden sensation of being back on board that merchant ship. And for the second time, the Assassin prevented her from toppling over. It wasn't so much that he caught her as he just happened to be in the general vicinity of the direction she was tipping.

"You are drunk," he declared as he propelled her back to the bed, careful to avoid the shards of broken clay.

"And?!" She was perfectly fine with that.

"And you are tired. Sleep, and we will speak tomorrow." Altaïr's hand was gentle but firm as it guided her to sit on the mattress.

Maria slapped it away anyway. "I meant what I said and sleep isn't going to change it," she informed him, if that was his train of thought.

Shaking his head, he merely dropped the shirt and bracers down beside her.

"Well?"

Still nothing.

She kicked his shin, but only succeeded in hurting herself, which made her all the more livid. "Say something!"

With a sigh, he reached up and lowered his hood. "What would you have me say, Maria? You are upset about the horse and you are punishing me because of this."

"The horse?!" Grabbing a handful of his robes, she hauled herself back to her feet. "This is not about the bloody horse," she insisted, swaying a little.

Altaïr's expression spoke to his disbelief of this assertion even if his lips did not.

Well, she wanted to tell him exactly what it was about, she just couldn't really recall right then. Blasted wine. So, she did what any self-respecting drunken Englishwoman in her situation would have – she hit him. Or would have, if he hadn't caught her hand mid-swing.

Again he pushed her down to sit on the bed, perhaps a bit less carefully this time.

But Maria still had ahold of his robes, and she wasn't about to let go without a fight. She brought her foot up again, and this time when it connected she was rewarded by an answering grunt of pain. Probably should have just aimed for his groin the first time. The distraction (or the agony) caused him to stoop forward, and she hastily wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing for all she was worth. It did occur to her that she was attempting to essentially smother him in her breasts, but far be it from her to complain if it worked.

Grabbing her elbows, Altaïr tried to disengage himself from her hold. Failing this, he swung around, dragging her off the mattress right along with him, and collided with the wall (intentionally, she felt).

Maria gasped as the impact forced the air out of her lungs. Her feet were dangling some ways up from the floor and she flailed for a moment, suspended by both her grip on his head and his grip on her arms. Then she got her legs around him and smirked in triumph. Until he reared back and thumped her into the wall again, that was. Her head cracked back against the worn tapestry hung over the bare wood, but it did little to cushion the blow. Still, she gritted her teeth and hung on.

A wrapping on the door was followed by the voice of who she could only assume was the innkeeper.

Altaïr stilled in his struggles.

"What does he want?" Maria queried without freeing him, only to be answered by unintelligible mumbling coming from the region of her chest. She dubiously loosened her hold and he yanked his head back, nostrils flaring.

"He wants quiet," he translated murderously.

"Ah, well then." She gazed down at him from her slightly raised position pinned to the wall by his weight and shrugged. "Are you quite done?" She didn't miss the indignant arch of his brow. Carefully unwinding one arm from his neck, she gave his cheek a pat. "But just so we're clear, I would have won."

He rolled his eyes. "This was not a game, Maria."

"Oh?" She looked pointedly downwards to their molded bodies. "What exactly would you call it?" she prompted as she returned her attention to his face, only inches away. She could see it then, the fire burning behind his intense stare. The thinly veiled desire. Her heart, previously thudding against her ribcage from the physical exertion, skipped a beat. Maria didn't let herself think about it more than that. Lifting her hand from where it had come to rest on his shoulder, she allowed a fingertip to trace the scar at the corner of his mouth.

"Maria…"

Mesmerized by the hitch in his voice, she tightened the arm still around his neck, and their warm breaths mingled when he leaned in. Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the feel of his lips as they brushed ever so slightly against her own.

Releasing her arms, Altaïr reached instead for her hips, his bruising grip in complete contrast to the tenderness of the kiss. And she knew immediately which she favoured.

Her teeth caught his lower lip, nipping sharply to make her point, and he obligingly deepened the embrace, cautiously at first. Maria responded in kind, her fingers finding their way into his mussed hair as they both strove for control over the kiss. The more she refused to be dominated, the harder his body crushed hers up against the wall.

His hands slid down to her thighs and pried them away from his waist. It wasn't until he tore his lips from hers that Maria realized how starved for breath she really was.

Her head lolled back against the wall as she dragged deep lungfuls of air in. She could hear him doing the same, feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against her own, and relished the knowledge that he had been equally as effected by something as she had for once.

"Tell me you will not regret this," Altaïr said suddenly, the irregular strain behind the words causing her to open her eyes and regard him with fascination.

Apparently not quite as effected, she decided after the wonderment of how he could still be having such coherent thoughts had worn off a little. Then she remembered that she was the drunk one, not him. And he did raise a frustratingly valid point. This moment had been weeks in the making, it was not the product of one jug of wine. The real question was, would she regret the act or the refusal of it more?


End file.
